


in which fanfiction is read and a bed is shared

by fakeplantmaster



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale is a bastard, Crowley has anxiety, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting together implied, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, the only one crowley's tempting is himself at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 17:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20213797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeplantmaster/pseuds/fakeplantmaster
Summary: another fic featuring our favorite demonic ball of anxiety and queer pining and bastard angel who Knowsinspired by this tumblr post by forineffablereasons:bedsharing with crowley and aziraphale is such a hilarious concept like the tension is so much more fraught and desperate because a) they don’t need to sleep and b) they could just. miracle a second bed. and despite these things they are just crawling in next to each other lying six inches apart wondering if the other would notice if they touched them with a pinky finger and trying to pretend like they’re asleep. he knows you’re not asleep!! you don’t need to sleep!! he doesn’t need to sleep!! they both Know that they’re just laying there breathing unnecessarily next to one another and yet they still are not only choosing to do it, but wondering if this could mean the same thing for the other as it does for him, and presumably this moment could have been happening on various occasions for six thousand years. incredible. they really deserve each other





	in which fanfiction is read and a bed is shared

Never let it be said of the demon Crowley that he does not stay apprized of current happenings and trends—after all, if he doesn’t know what people enjoy these days, how can he know what they will find irresistible? How can he be expected to carry out his wily demonic work if he remains uninformed?

This is what Crowley tells himself as he scrolls through page after page of text on his phone. It’s late at night and he’s alone in his flat, sitting in his throne of a chair, ankles crossed, feet on his desk. A being who didn’t know better would say that Crowley is _reading_—but they don’t know that Crowley doesn’t read, doesn’t enjoy reading, and certainly doesn’t choose to read in his spare time. And they clearly don’t know the consequences for alleging something so obviously false.

Crowley is not _reading_ but rather _familiarizing_ himself with the elements of fictional stories people tend to enjoy. Right now he is engrossed in a story of a rather romantic nature as he learns about a common situation in such tales in which the two people, having not yet admitted their feelings for each other, unwittingly find themselves past nightfall with only one bed between the two of them. So immersed in his research is Crowley that he does not notice the sun peek over the London skyline, and it is not until mid-morning when the landline rings that the demon snaps out of his fixated investigation.

He grabs the phone from across the desk, bending his knees and keeping his feet aloft. He rasps into the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Crowley, hello,”—Aziraphale’s voice is characteristically high-strung—“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner tonight. A new Italian restaurant recently opened down the street from the bookshop, and I thought—”

“Would love to,” Crowley replies shortly, not intending to sound impolite but also quite resolved to keep the uncomfortable flutter in his chest from seeping into his tone.

“—Oh, wonderful,” says the angel. “How’s eight?”

“I’ll be there.” Crowley swings his feet off the desk and drops the receiver onto the ringer.

He stands and begins to pace up and down the hallway. His intensive research has shown that this fictional one-bed problem is rather prolific in some areas of fiction, particularly in the subgenre in which people write stories about a story that someone else has already written. He has concluded that the appeal of this situation is that it allows for physical closeness without requiring the revealing of any feelings, and because people love to give excuses for their actions rather than honest explanations, it would stand to reason that creating this situation in real life might very well yield numerous opportunities for temptation. It would also stand to reason, Crowley supposes, that trialing this situation in real life before conceivably using it to tempt the general public would allow for the resolution of stumbling blocks and unforeseen consequences. Never mind that he’s no longer on Hell’s side and has no real need to carry out temptations like he used to; he’d just like to know if it’s hypothetically possible. Of course, he has no one on whom to test his plan but himself, and no other second player than Aziraphale. Indeed, this is purely for the purposes of demonic research—in no way will he be enticing Aziraphale to do anything he doesn’t already want to do, and Crowley knows he doesn’t want to lead the angel to sin. He simply wants to know if this is a viable plan for tempting humans.

He sits back down, chewing on his lip. That’s a fine line to walk, he understands, but Someone knows he’s quite good at that sort of thing—unfortunately he’s had thousands of years of practice. And he’s as certain as he can be without actually being certain that he wouldn’t be doing anything that Aziraphale wouldn’t want. Even though Crowley isn’t able to sense love, he’s come to know every lilt and tremor of Aziraphale’s voice, how it rises when he gets defensive and becomes so agonizingly soft when he turns Crowley down. He knows the angel’s eyes, can tell when his defenses are up and when he’s letting himself _feel_. How the corners of his eyes crinkle when Crowley gives in and how his eyebrows arch when he knows he has the upper hand. That devilish smile to accompany the raised brows and the affectionate glimmer in his eyes to balance it out. The angel has told him time and again that he loves him, loves him more deeply than the general angelic love he’s supposed to feel for all things. Loves him with the force of his whole being, not just the angelic part, which, Crowley has come to realize, not only no longer comprises Aziraphale’s entire being, but also was perhaps not intended to house this sort of love. A love contained in a being so unlike the angels in Heaven and still so inhuman—indeed, aside from Aziraphale, there is only one being who has grown so far away from the tendencies of his peers and yet holds such abilities and lives such a life no human could hope to imagine. Perhaps this is why Aziraphale loves him—no other being in the universe could comprehend such a love. And yet, Crowley prays, this is not the only reason; at least, Crowley could not imagine loving any other as he loves Aziraphale, even if all the angels in Heaven and demons in Hell had lived on Earth all this time, even if they were as diverse as the humans they so thoroughly avoid, even if they held him in the highest regard and let him live as he wished. Crowley knows nothing can keep him from loving Aziraphale with every fiber of his being, neither distance nor conflict nor Death—in fact, Death least of all. He would hope, then, that his tremendously terrifying devotion is not wholly one-sided. There’s always a shred of doubt, but perhaps it’ll be resolved tonight, one way or another.

Crowley runs a hand down his face and rests it over his mouth, momentarily frightened by his own thoughts. Perhaps this isn’t as straightforward as he hopes.

* * *

Eight o’clock rolls around after an excruciating day of waiting and thinking and prepping and pacing. Finally he sits down in his Bentley and closes the door. It’s suddenly strikingly quiet, and even though his flat has been silent all day, Crowley only now hears a distinct lack of noise, both in his head and outside himself, and it calms him somewhat. He drives across town to the bookshop, road noise dulled in his ears, and arrives just as Aziraphale steps out the door.

* * *

Crowley unlocks the door of his flat and holds it open for Aziraphale. They’ve fallen into the habit of returning either to Crowley’s flat or the bookshop after dinner—whichever happens to be closer to the restaurant of the evening. Crowley quite likes having the angel over to his flat. He had been worried the first time Aziraphale had come over that he wouldn’t like having someone else in his space or that he would feel embarrassed or vulnerable, but those fears faded months ago and now this has become Crowley’s oft favorite part of the evenings he spends with Aziraphale. He enters behind the angel and locks the door behind him, hanging his keys on a hook by the door.

“Why don’t we open a bottle?” Aziraphale is already halfway down the hall, voice trailing behind him. “The wine from dinner has quite worn off.”

Crowley follows him into the kitchen, smiling at the angel’s back.

Two hours later, the pair are reclined on the sofa—though not without a small and significant space between them—and reach a lull in their conversation. Aziraphale leans forward toward the empty wine bottle and glasses on the coffee table. “Shall we get another bottle?” His voice is melty-warm and Crowley almost agrees on reflex before remembering what he had planned.

“Actually, angel, I’m getting rather tired and was hoping to get some sleep.”

Aziraphale purses his lips and gives a short nod. “In that case, I should be getting back—”

“Aren’t you tired too?” Crowley says hurriedly. “It’s been a long day. I know you don’t normally sleep but don’t you think some rest would feel nice?”

Consideration crosses Aziraphale’s face. “I suppose it would. I’ll go back to the bookshop and lie down for a bit then.”

This is not going as smoothly as Crowley intended. “I can’t let you go back to the bookshop alone, angel. It’s a long way and the other angels might be looking for us.” It’s not technically false; both Crowley and Aziraphale have been noticing signs that Gabriel and his lot have been poking around London, no doubt to investigate their angel-gone-native. One can only assume that Beelzebub and the other demons can’t be far behind. And although it’s not terribly likely that any of them will find Aziraphale if he leaves now, Crowley knows the angel is not one to needlessly throw himself into risky situations.

Aziraphale tilts his head thoughtfully. “Then it seems I’ll have to stay here for the time being. Hope you don’t mind, dear.”

Crowley sends a silent _thank you_ to Whomever Might Be Listening that Aziraphale did not ask him to drive him back to the bookshop and did not simply miracle himself there. Instead, the angel lets out a long breath. “Rest still sounds nice, though. I presume you have a bedroom, then, since you enjoy sleeping on a regular basis.”

_Now_ this is getting somewhere. “I do, although I usually sober up before going to bed. Prevents hangovers.” He leans forward on the sofa and grunts as he purges the alcohol from his system.

“Good idea.” Aziraphale nods and follows suit.

Crowley rises shakily to his feet and leads Aziraphale to his bedroom. When they step through the doorway, Crowley feels the moment of _Oh no, there’s only one bed! What are we to do!_ float through the air. Aziraphale appears to feel no such thing. “Oh, what a lovely bed you have, my dear,” he says simply. He’s right, of course: Crowley’s bed is as wide as it is ornate, with silky black sheets and a frame for a canopy reaching up into the shadowy ceiling.

“I suppose I could miracle myself a bed to sleep in next to yours—” He raises a hand hesitantly, about to thoroughly thwart Crowley’s plan. Then by some miracle he lowers it, knitting his brow. “But then, your bed just looks so _comfortable_, and I’m rather unfamiliar with the ins and outs of beds—you know, don’t tend to sleep much—and I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to create a bed as splendid as yours—”

Crowley finishes the thought for him before he can finish it into something else. “Then I guess we’ll have to share. Like you said, it’s plenty big enough.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale miracles himself into a set of matching pajamas: a fitted short-sleeve top and bottoms that come down to his mid-thigh, both covered with small pink hearts. Crowley feels his breath catch in his throat, trying not to lose himself in the angel’s radiance. His hair is curled in messy tufts and his skin seems almost to glow from within. The rounded edges of his body, more exposed now than Crowley has ever seen, look impossibly smooth and soft. He is irresistibly _beautiful_ and all at once the sentiments that Crowley has so resolutely kept on lockdown all evening come flooding toward the surface.

Aziraphale looks at him expectantly. “Aren’t you going to change? You don’t sleep in your everyday clothes, do you?”

Crowley jerks his head toward the angel’s voice and gives a vague nod, miracling himself into his black silk pajamas.

They climb into the bed from opposite sides and lay on their backs side by side, neither daring to make a sound. An insurmountable six inches separates their shoulders.

After a period, Aziraphale rolls onto his side facing away from Crowley. Crowley feels an immediate urge to construe the angel’s back facing him as discomfort and regret with agreeing to share the bed, but he dismisses it. He himself often sleeps on his side or stomach, and he chooses to assume that Aziraphale is simply trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. Still, the deep, rapid breaths Crowley hears emanating from the angel are not characteristic of one preoccupied with sleep.

Suddenly something brushes against the outside of Crowley’s leg for a flash of a moment, sending a hot-blooded shiver in all directions over his skin. He goes stock-still, hearing the sheets sigh faintly as Aziraphale pulls his leg back toward himself in the darkness. Crowley figures the angel must have fallen asleep, but the glaringly obvious dawns on him—he doesn’t need sleep. Neither of them do. Maybe Aziraphale is thinking the same thing. And if he’s most likely not asleep, then—

Crowley stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, not daring to move a muscle and simultaneously so desperate for that contact again, anything more than the nothing of the present moment. Maybe if he could just roll onto his side facing Aziraphale’s back, he could _accidentally_ stretch out an arm too far or bump a knee into the angel’s thigh. He shifts his weight to one side, trying to roll as quietly as he can in the hopes Aziraphale will assume he’s asleep. It so happens that the sleep-faking angel also chooses that moment to roll onto his other side. As Crowley rolls onto his arm he feels a tap on his nose and then a sharp exhale of warm breath over his mouth. Then Aziraphale is scooting backward, facade of sleep abandoned. Crowley shifts quickly onto his back and doesn’t move again. His heart thunders in his ears and he squeezes his eyes shut in disbelief. They had touched _noses_ and Crowley’s bedroom had been too dark for him to see Aziraphale’s face right up next to his own, too dark for him to see the shock he assumed had flashed through the angel’s eyes—though excited or disgusted shock, Crowley could not be sure.

It should be noted that Crowley can usually see just fine in very low light, and it is precisely because of this fact that he has very large, thick blackout curtains in his bedroom to keep the room entirely devoid of light when he’s trying to sleep. He closed them before leaving for dinner—part of his preparation—and at present moment is deeply regretting doing so. Usually the lack of light is not a problem—not being able to see his hand in front of his face is usually quite preferable, given the general nature and purpose of sleep—but at this moment it’s so excruciatingly counterproductive that Crowley briefly considers making one of the curtain rods fall and then acting surprised, saying he’ll fix it in the morning. But he doesn’t want to startle Aziraphale like that, so he abandons the thought and settles for biting his tongue in frustration.

Eventually the hazy pull of sleep drifts over him. He dozes through the night, occasionally jolting awake when he hears the sheets shift or feels the mattress dip next to him. Aziraphale doesn’t brush against him again.

Crowley wakes in the mid-morning feeling fairly well-rested. A sliver of light is leaking in at the sides of the curtains, just enough for him to see Aziraphale sleeping beside him. The angel is lying on his back, covers pulled up to his chest and arms laid across his torso. He looks so positively angelic in the low morning light that Crowley simply can’t convince himself that this is his current reality—even though given what Aziraphale is, it really shouldn’t overcome him to the extent that it does. Belatedly and all at once, the weight of the situation hits him like a freight train. _Aziraphale is in his bed_ and he could discorporate on the spot. The trickle of light dances along the slight curve of the angel’s nose and rosy roundness of his cheeks and catches in his bedhead hair, fluffy like spun sugar. His dewy lips are parted slightly, the space between them growing and shrinking ever so slightly as he breathes in and out, breaths that seem so human that Crowley wonders if they really have gone native after all.

Suddenly Aziraphale inhales deeply and his eyes open. Before he turns his head to look at Crowley and realizes that Crowley is staring at him, Crowley has a half-second to decide his course of action. He picks what he hopes is the most believable.

Aziraphale’s head turns, a look of perfectly contentment spread across his face. Crowley rolls quickly from his side, where he has been looking at Aziraphale, onto his back and gives a wide yawn, the kind he figures tends to indicate that someone has just woken up.

“Good morning, my dear.” Aziraphale’s voice is deeper than Crowley’s ever heard it and he feels something twist in his stomach.

“Morning, angel.” He turns his head to meet those blue eyes, trying his best to keep his voice even. “Sleep well?”

“Quite,” Aziraphale says, stretching his arms over his head and hitting the headboard. “I see the appeal now, waking up all warm and snug.” He pulls the covers aside, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and rises to his feet facing away from Crowley, who almost misses his next words—“and your being here only made it better.”

“Say again?” Crowley’s voice is more desirous than he’d like but that’s of lesser importance at the moment. But Aziraphale has already miracled himself back into his everyday clothes and left the bedroom for the kitchen, a bag of his favorite tea appearing in his hand. Crowley dresses and hurries after him.

Under less dire circumstances, Crowley would appreciate the sight of the angel making tea in his kitchen, having already pulled a mug and the kettle out of their respective cabinets like he’s done it a thousand times—even though he usually only drinks wine when he comes over. He smiles gently at Crowley as the demon steps into the kitchen. “And how did you sleep, dear?”

“I slept fine. What was it again you said back there?”

The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth turn up further as he casts his gaze down to the empty mug on the counter in front of him. “I only said it was nice of you to be there.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Crowley raises an eyebrow as he leans back on his elbows against the counter opposite Aziraphale. He flicks his wrist and a glass of water appears in his hand. “Why don’t you just make the tea with a miracle? Much faster and less work.”

Aziraphale snatches the mug and covers the top with his hand as though Crowley is about to miracle it full of tea right then and there. “I wouldn’t! I like making it; it’s part of the fun.”

“Part of the fun, _really_,” Crowley scoffs, taking a sip of water. “C’mon, angel, what’d you really say back there?”

Aziraphale takes the kettle off the stove and fills the mug, eyes fixed downward and tone restrained. “Why must you know so badly?”

Growing frustrated, Crowley neglects to run his next words through his mental filter. “What if there were _feelings _on your end? I’d want to know now rather than later.”

The angel’s gaze snaps up to meet his. His expression is unreadable, though his eyes have grown dark. “Oh, feelings on _my_ end? You were the one who arranged the bed-sharing—” He stops himself too late.

“Hang on, you knew?” Incredulity spreads over Crowley’s face. “At several points last night I thought you’d go back to the bookshop or something. Miracle yourself another bed.”

A victorious smile breaks across Aziraphale’s face even as he tries to contain it. “I didn’t want to be presumptuous, dear, and even though I wouldn’t have been, it was fun to watch you struggle.”

Crowley glares at the angel, who, infuriatingly, only grins back. Aziraphale snaps his fingers and cream swirls up in his mug, mixing with the dark tea. He continues, “I’m familiar with the whole there’s-only-one-bed scenario. I have read a lot of romance novels, you know. And rather recently I learned there are other people who read those novels and write their own stories about them with the same characters, and I quite enjoy those as well.” He takes a long sip of tea, eyes fixed on Crowley’s over the top of the mug.

“_Fanfiction_, angel?” Crowley sputters. “You read _fanfiction? _How do you know about the internet? _Where_ are you getting access to the internet?”

“Well, I was at the public library one day and overheard these two delightful young people talking about a book I’d just happened to finish, one I very much enjoyed. They had mentioned reading ‘fan-fiction’ about it, and so I asked them for help getting on the ‘internet,’ something I’d heard them mention in tandem, and they set me up on a library computer. After they left I did a search for this fanfiction and found lots of it. It’s all quite impressive, you know, very talented writers out there.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis.

Crowley picks his jaw up off the floor. Another concern dawns on him as he sips on his glass. “Angel, you know there’s this thing called broswer history that catalogues every site you visit, and I’m not sure if the library computers keep your history after you log out, but there’s still a chance that whatever you’ve read is immortalized essentially as _public record_, right? I hope you didn’t read anything too racy.”

“I couldn’t, the computer had filters set up.”

Water comes out Crowley’s nose. Aziraphale miracles him a hand towel, smiling warmly. “I admit I did enjoy it, though. Sharing a bed with you.”

“Ngk,” replies Crowley. He feels the anxious knot of doubt wrenching his stomach evaporate all at once. He has his answer.

“I—I enjoyed it too,” he says finally.

A radiant, loving expression spreads over Aziraphale’s face. He drains the last of his tea and sets down the mug with a resolute _clink_. “I’ve got to go check on the bookshop, care to join me?”

_I’ll go anywhere with you, angel_. “Absolutely.”

Aziraphale takes a step toward the kitchen doorway and holds his hand out toward Crowley, who clasps it in his. The angel raises the demon’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss into the back of it.

Crowley is lost for words as they make their way toward the front door, hand in hand.

Aziraphale is the first to speak. “So I had a thought about my magic act. I saw these silk scarves in a shop window the other day and—oh, thank you, dear”—he nods at Crowley holding the door open as he steps out of the flat—“and I had the idea to…”

Crowley smiles absently as the angel rambles on. Not even the current topic of conversation can stifle his happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! (and leaving kudos and commenting if you did that too!!) Come bother me at show-me-a-great-plan.tumblr.com :)


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